


The Confession

by stefanie_bean



Series: Tales from the Bardo [4]
Category: Lost
Genre: Afterlife, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual Female Character of Color, Complete, Drama, F/F, F/M, Flash Sideways Verse, Rare Pairings, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 23:33:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14412876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stefanie_bean/pseuds/stefanie_bean
Summary: Libby helps Ana Lucia to remember, and to let go.InTales from the Bardo, the Losties make their way through the flash-sideways, struggling with themselves, their pasts, and their karma.





	The Confession

Libby opens the hotel room window to let in the Los Angeles evening. Dusty gems of light set the valley aglow, while little breezes tousle her hair. In the distance, dark mountains hold their silent vigil. 

“Stay put,” Desmond had told her, before disappearing into the afternoon with Hurley. It's been hours, and they're still gone. Here she is, but for what?

She's about to pour herself a glass of wine when three hard, staccato knocks make the doorjamb vibrate. She hesitates. They're repeated, louder this time. 

The door has no peephole, and no chain or bolt, either. A tiny strand of panic twists through her. What were Desmond and Hurley thinking, leaving her alone here?

The third set of knocks sounds like someone wants to break down the door.

“Honey, I'll get it.” Libby projects as if she's on-stage, hoping she sounds confident, authoritative. “Who's there?”

“LAPD.” 

If she doesn't answer, what are they going to do, shoot her? Libby opens the door a crack, and stares into a woman cop's dark sunglasses. Libby's knees go weak, because this is the last person she expected to see. 

Ana Lucia's tight bun pulls her face into an expressionless mask. Across the left side of her forehead, a fresh cut forms an angry slash. It's welling blood, like an eye full of tears ready to cry. 

From Ana's tense stance and belligerent expression, it's clear that she doesn't recognize Libby, so she stalls a little. “Can I see your badge, please?”

Ana flashes it, then whisks it away. “You satisfied?” 

Libby struggles to recover her calm. “What can I do for you, Officer Cortez?” Inside, she's singing, fighting the urge to reach for Ana, to hug her, tell her how much she's missed her.

“This Hugo Reyes's room, right?”

 _Oh, Ana_ , she almost sighs. Instead, she just nods. 

“Go get your tubby boyfriend. I got to ask him some questions.”

“He's not here.” _And he's not my boyfriend, either_ , she thinks, despite her asking him to this hotel. 

Ana props her sunglasses up on her head, with the clear implication that Libby is lying. “'Honey, I'll get it?'” she mocks.

“I just said that in case. So whoever it was wouldn't think I was alone.” 

“Good call. Mind if I take a look around anyway?”

Libby knows that Ana can't just barge in without a warrant, but maybe that's not the case here. Wherever “here” is, because her twilight glances out the window have convinced her that she's not really in Los Angeles.

What the hell. Libby waves Ana inside, then follows her as she continues her search of the bedroom. Ana even rummages through the closet, although there's no way Hurley could fit himself in there to hide.

Last of all, Ana scrutinizes a small brass plaque on the inside of the closet door. “'Know first who you are, and then adorn yourself accordingly.' What kind of hippie shit is that?”

The words send a chill through Libby. To distract herself she asks, “What do you want with Hurley?” In the dim light, the cut on Ana's forehead looks wider. It gapes like a newly-opened mouth, one with a lot to say, if only it could.

“Some corrupt cop let out a trio of jailbirds. Reyes was the bag man.” Ana leans into Libby, eyes narrowed. “You know anything about that?”

“No.” Inwardly Libby is flailing over what kind of trouble Hurley's gotten himself into, how familiar it feels to yank him back from the edge of a cliff.

The cut has opened even wider, and red rivulets run onto Ana's collar. In the kindest voice she can muster, Libby says, “Officer Cortez, you're bleeding.” 

Ana lurches over to the dresser and stares at herself in the mirror, as if seeing herself for the first time. She grips the furniture like someone about to fall over. “Henry did this... No, not Henry. Ben. Ben hit me.” Her face erupts in panic. “And I got shot. Oh, my God, I'm shot.” 

“Ana, wait—“

Ana claws at her button-down shirt, yanking it out of her trousers. She rips open the bottom three buttons, then chokes back a sob at the sight of her bare stomach with its white, jagged scar.

Libby steers Ana to the edge of the bed, shoving the gray dress aside. As she daubs Ana's forehead with one wet washcloth after another, red blends with salt as Ana sobs. “I'm the one who busted those jabronies out. Hurley paid me. I let my partner take the fall.”

“Breaking people out of jail... It sounds like something Hurley would do.”

Ana's words are muffled by the towel. “I'm sorry,” she says over and over. “I tried to keep you safe on the Island, but I couldn't.”

“It's okay,” Libby murmurs as she draws Ana in close.

“That's not the half of it.” As Ana rests her head on Libby's shoulder, she begins to lay down one sad burden after another. Libby doesn't even shudder as Ana describes how she threatened Nathan with torture, or pushed Goodwin onto a sharpened spike. At only one point does Libby interrupt her. “Sawyer? You slept with Sawyer?”

Ana laughs like a small creature showing its teeth. “You didn't, with Hurley? You two were gone an awful long time that one afternoon.”

“He tried to kill himself, Ana. I talked him down.”

“Jesus H. Christ. No wonder you both looked so upset when you got back. I thought it was just from shitty sex.”

“Like with Sawyer?”

“You've heard the expression, all hat and no cattle?”

They both laugh, and for a minute it's like old days on the Island, the good parts. Libby doesn't like the look of that cut, though. “Ana, it's stopped bleeding, but you should go to the hospital. It's going to need stitches.”

“Don't worry, Libby, I got this.” 

That's like the old Ana Libby remembers.

Abruptly, Ana flips open her phone. “Scuse me. Got to make a call.”

The first try goes to voice mail, but Ana doesn't leave a message. Someone picks up on the second number. “Mom?... Yeah, it's me... I know... I know, I'm sorry.” 

A long silence, because Ana's mother must have a lot to say. While Ana paces, Libby collects the wet and soiled towels, wondering if she should leave the room, but Ana motions her to stay.

“I'm less than an hour away, Mom,” Ana goes on. “Yeah, I'll really be there this time... I will. I promise.”

Another long silence, in which Ana starts to shake. Tears run down her cheeks, but she keeps her voice under control. “Okay, Mom, okay. I love you too. See you.” She sets the phone down on the dresser.

“Ana, I can get us a cab, we can go to the ER—“

Ana waves her off. “Mom was an EMT before she became a cop, and she still keeps a suture kit. Used to stitch me and my sister up when we were kids.” Ana fingers her blood-stained collar, twisting open the top few buttons. “I can't go over there in this. It's not... me. Not anymore.”

Libby hands her the gray dress, still on its hanger. “There are some pumps in the closet that match, too.” She glances down at her own cotton summer dress, now stained with Ana's blood and tears. “I guess we should both change.”

“Thanks, Libby. I mean it, thanks.”

“Oh, Ana...” Libby can now let the simple phrase flow out freely, pouring into it every scrap of feeling gathered during those two short months in that place of terror, death, and glory.

*:*:*:*:*

By the time Hurley returns, Libby's wearing the green with spangles, has put on fresh makeup, and done her hair. He seems preoccupied, and even though he brushes her cheek with a quick kiss, he doesn't remark on her dress. A little piqued, she says, “You look like you've been to a funeral.”

“Actually, there's one later tonight. For all of us. I mean, all of us are invited. If you want to go, Libby. With me.”

“Of course, Hurley.” She has a pretty good idea who “all of us” is. But before she can ask whose funeral, he says, “So, who came by?”

“Ana Lucia.” 

“Really? Man, I could have sworn she wasn't ready. Where is she? Did she say anything about coming to the church tonight?”

“She's going to see her mom.”

He nods, full of tenderness and understanding. Then, in a voice soft with sorrow, he tells her about the jailbreak. “Man, I didn't think it would be so hard. Kate just looked right through me like I wasn't even there.” He wanders over to stare out the open window, exactly as Libby had. To the mountains he says, “No surprise, I guess. Desmond was sure it was gonna be Jack, anyway.”

“Jack?”

“The one to make her remember.” He brightens a little. “'Course, Desmond wasn't leaving anything to chance, 'cause he wanted to move things along, too. He showed me the dress he was gonna give her to wear.”

“Oh?” 

“A lot shorter than yours.” He stares at the white roses as if seeing them for the first time. “Did they... Did you smell them?”

She shakes her head. “These don't have any smell. Something in the way they're bred.”

“Right,” he says, almost laughing. “Desmond, you wily dog, you.” 

Libby has always assumed death would mean peace, repose, the conclusion of all things. Instead, it's as ambiguous and complicated as life itself, including the overwhelming urge to explain. “Hurley, I don't want you to think... Listen, there weren't any roses on the beach. Kissing you, that was real.”

“I know. For me, too.”

She doesn't expect him to move towards her, and anyway, they have a funeral to go to. Instead, they both pause for a few beats of the hearts they no longer have, and without changing size, the room seems to shrink to just a room; her dress to just a dress. The soaring sense of freedom inside tells her that she no longer needs validation. She saved his life, once. 

It's enough.

He's the one who breaks the moment. Taking the flowers from their vase, he carries them, dripping, to the balcony outside the window. He opens his hands wide, tossing them high into the air, but they don't fall to the street below. Instead, the stems vanish, and the roses themselves erupt into white petals which flutter like pale, moonlit moths. The swirling cloud rises on the wind, sending fragments of white over the glowing city.

Shaking the water from his palms, he offers her his hand, and his face shines with excited anticipation. “Ready?” 

She is.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Viewers of _The Leftovers_ will recognize the brass plaque from “International Assassin.”
> 
> If anyone is interested in reading more about the FSW and the bardo, here are some [Notes: Tales From the Bardo](https://stefanie-bean.dreamwidth.org/tag/notes:+tales+from+the+bardo).


End file.
